


connection

by annabeth



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut, mentions of Chris/Viktor, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 10:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13680057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/annabeth
Summary: Yuri is very unhappy that an injury is keeping him from the Olympics in Pyeongchang. Viktor tries to help.





	connection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Icicle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icicle/gifts).



> This is for Icicle for her birthday--happy birthday, lovely! I really hope you enjoy it. ♥
> 
> I have to thank [Ashii Black](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ashiiblack) with helping give me an idea for the fic.

"This fucking sucks!" Yuri complains angrily, throwing the TV remote control. "I wanted to compete. Now I have to wait four more years!" He stabs the cast on his ankle with his fork.

"That's supposed to be for your borscht," Viktor says mildly, "not the possibility of injuring yourself further."

"Fucking ankle," Yuri snarls, and the fork clatters against the plate. "I hate this. Vitya, it isn't fair."

"Everyone gets injured at some point," Viktor says. "You're growing, Yura. It was bound to happen that—"

"A triple axel! Viktor, that's one of my best jumps. How? _How_ did I land it wrong? I broke my fucking ankle for fuck's sake." Yuri's words are angry, but his voice sounds faintly… shit, Viktor thinks. Yura sounds like he might actually _cry_.

It's not unusual for figure skaters to be overcome by emotion, but Yura has almost stopped crying completely now that he's nearly eighteen. And if Viktor gives the slightest indication that he realizes how close Yuri is to crying, Yuri will probably throw the fork at him, and maybe the knife too.

In the interest of self-preservation, Viktor gathers up the plate and cutlery, walking it to the kitchen. Yuri yells after him,

"Don't think I don't know you're only doing that because I can barely walk! Fuck."

Viktor sets the dishes in the sink. It's almost Valentine's Day, and he's here, in Russia, with Yura because he broke his ankle, even though Yuuri is competing in the Olympics for Japan. That argument had been rather searing, as if tinder had been struck and sparks were flying. Viktor had begged Yuuri for forgiveness over and over, but though Yuuri was coolly polite like any Japanese person might be—to a _stranger_ —he wouldn't talk about their breakup anymore.

Viktor leans over the sink. He can hear Yuri cursing in Russian at the television, and he's not sure what to do. He already skipped the Olympics for Yura. What else can he do? The dozen red roses won't be delivered until tomorrow, and he needs something _now_. Something that will take Yuri's mind off the fact that he's here in Russia instead of in Pyeongchang, where he has every right to be.

Sudden silence from their living room sends Viktor walking hurriedly into the room. Yuri is staring morosely at the TV, absentmindedly tapping his fingers on his cast. Figure skating is on.

"Hey," Viktor says, "turn it off. It's just gonna upse—"

"I'm fine, old man," Yura snaps. Potya jumps up onto the back of the couch, and stretches one paw down towards his cast, her claws extended.

"Potya, no," Viktor says. Yuri just exhales gustily and yeah, he's worried now. Yuri isn't even annoyed with Viktor for talking to his cat. When they moved in together, Makkachin was overjoyed and tried to be friends. Potya was a harder sell, but she tolerates Makkachin now. However, Yuri has a grudge against Viktor's dog, claiming that the poodle growled at Potya once and scared her.

The scratch marks on Yuri's arm are testimony to the fact that whatever had happened, Potya _had_ been scared. Now Yuri hates it if Viktor addresses her.

"Listen, Yura," Viktor says, picking up the remote control from the floor and shutting off the TV. "I know this is an adjustment, and I know living together isn't easy, but I love you. Surely you know that by now?"

"You fucked that pig before you fucked me," Yuri says, but his voice is dead. He's acting like he doesn't care about anything. This calls for extreme measures.

"But he never fucked me," Viktor says. He has an almost irrational fear of bottoming, but there's no way he can fuck Yuri with his broken ankle—surely partly to blame for his bad attitude—and besides, what else can he offer? Despite the months of dating, and the months of living together, Yuri doesn't trust Viktor. Or at least, Viktor doesn't think he does.

Viktor knows it's because he left Yuri in the cold when he went to Japan, and when he got engaged so publicly. That he'd not acknowledged that Yuri had held his heart first, before he chose to give it away.

Viktor leaves the room again, shedding his clothes. He finds the lube in the bathroom cabinet, and he can't help his strut as he re-enters the room. He strides over and carefully lifts Yuri up, then lays him on the floor. Yuri is as unresisting as a doll.

"What are you doing?" he asks listlessly, and this depression worries Viktor more than the cursing and the tantrums.

"Be mindful of your ankle," Viktor says, and he reaches into Yuri's boxer briefs. Yuri's soft, limp and warm against his palm, but Viktor squeezes a little, then bends his head and blows over it.

"Okay, seriously, Vitya, I can't—"

"You _can_ ," Viktor says. He produces the lube, and in the process of coating Yuri's cock with it, Yuri's body grows clearly interested in the proceedings. He's hard and jutting upward when Viktor's finished, and probably the fact that he has a finger in his own ass helped with that. "Please just… go easy on me."

"Wait. You—" Yura wraps his own hand around his cock, and his other hand reaches up behind Viktor's heavy balls to find and probe at his opening. Viktor's done this before, but not often; his most memorable experience was an after-banquet drunken tryst with Chris. But he told Yura the truth: he never allowed Yuuri to fuck him. "I thought you said you wouldn't," Yura says.

"I changed my mind. Put it inside." Viktor closes his eyes and braces himself.

"You have to relax," Yuri says, "or it won't work, remember?" The blunt head of his dick prods at his hole, and Viktor carefully loosens his muscles, letting the stress and worry melt away from him. When Yuri slides upward, filling him, Viktor lets out a gasp.

"You hate it," Yura says, even as his hands grip Viktor's hips to pull him down, seating himself fully within and cradling Viktor's ass against his pelvis.

"I, ah, I don't," Viktor says, but he's not sure he _likes_ it, either. Then Yura moves, a sinuous roll of his hips, his body, and Viktor is surprised.

"If you hate it, just tell me to stop already," Yuri says, but he's breathless, and that little hitch between each word stops Viktor from doing just that.

"I love you," he says, eyes still closed, head leaned back, his hands braced on either side of Yura's thin thighs, behind his back.

"Look at me," Yuri says, and he sounds angry, just like the teenager Viktor's loved for so long. He opens his eyes, and he focuses them on those bright, inquisitive, insightful green ones. And it _works_ —Viktor's body forgets its objections, his mind is quieted, and something about the connection forged by holding Yuri's eyes even as Yura's dick plows into him turns the experience on its head. Suddenly that unsure feeling is an _oh yes_ , and Viktor reaches forward, strokes a fingertip down the side of Yuri's cheek. At his jaw, the beginning of light blond stubble abrades his finger, the color so pale you can't see it, but he must be so thrilled—and Viktor is overwhelmed by just how much he loves this _man_. Yuri's not a child—not anymore.

The connection between their bodies throbs, and Viktor feels pleasure spike like lightning traveling up his spine. Yura twists his hips and thrusts upward, and Viktor moans.

Those green eyes are so uncompromising. They are older than his seventeen years, and Viktor is pinned by that glorious gaze. His hips are pumping, and Viktor's grinding down, and suddenly it's Yura's turn to gasp, as he squeezes his hands too tightly on Viktor's hips and comes.

"Ah-ah," Viktor says, and he doesn't know what does it, but the way those eyes grow glassy with pleasure from his orgasm, the way his dick feels deep inside—Viktor comes too, spurting over them both. It's a stronger orgasm than he's had in awhile, and Yura's eyes finally close. From his expression, mixing things up in their sex life has done more than distract him from his injury.

"I might, just, kinda like you too, old man," Yura mumbles, and that's about when Potya decides Viktor's ass must be made of some hard material because she claws him but good. Viktor shouts his own Russian curses, and Yura opens his eyes again and laughs.

"Get off me," he says, "and turn skating back on. I can't believe you let me into your treasured ass just to make me feel better."

Viktor climbs off, rubbing the bleeding marks on his ass.

"I didn't realize I was so transparent," he says.

"You're always transparent," Yuri says. "You aren't as sneaky as you mean to be."

"Just you wait," Viktor says, mock-angrily, "next time I'll be sneaky behind."

"Not with this ankle."

"Just five more weeks, Yura, and you can wait till then." Viktor knows the moment Yuri understands that Viktor means he won't fuck him again for weeks.

"You fucker!" he hollers, and Viktor smiles. The venom, the life, is back in Yuri's voice. And the imprecation isn't meant to wound.

"I'll take you to dinner tomorrow," Viktor promises, kissing Yuri's lips gently. "And we can make out in public as much as you want."

The smile on Yura's face tells Viktor all he needs to know about Yuri's trust—and how much faith he really has in his boyfriend, after all.


End file.
